


Friends and Lovers

by Toft



Category: Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Age Difference, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Grief/Mourning, May-December Romance, Multi, Romance, Slow Build, Threesome - F/F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1465018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from a life with friends and lovers, lovers and friends. aka Kel/Everyone with eventual Kel/Wyldon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Owen of Jesslaw

**Author's Note:**

> The major character death mentioned in warnings is a major character from the books but not a major character in this fic! (ie. it's not any of the people mentioned in the pairings).

They have fought together so often, in training, war, and the practice courts, that they know each other's style and can anticipate each other's movements almost without thinking. They move so fast that to the onlookers it's almost impossible to follow Kel sweeping low with her glaive, Owen stabbing into the gap she leaves open just as she twists back. The two fights fall apart for a breath, then Kel slashes up and Owen leaps backwards to avoid her, and Kel is spinning her glaive to make a deadly, blurring wall, making his approach impossible as she forces him towards the edge of the arena boundary. When Owen makes his mad charge, Kel has been waiting for it, and she trips him neatly and brings her glaive down, but even if he hasn't grown out of his recklessness yet Owen knows Kel too well to be caught quite that easily, and he rolls sideways, sweeping his leg up around hers and toppling her. She throws herself backwards into an automatic roll and is up again in a second, her glaive's guarded point against Owen's chest. He laughs breathlessly and throws his hands up.

"I yield! You win, Kel! Oh, I knew you would!"

The crowd applauds, and Kel bows awkwardly to receive the palm, her dislike at these display fights momentarily humbled in the face of Owen's honest joy at her victory, his beaming face beside her as he receives the ribbon for second place. Kel feels a grin stretch across her own face despite herself. Owen's enjoyment of fighting is infectious, and she can't deny that it always feels good to do what she does best in these simple play-bouts where nobody is killed. To put a cap on her sense of well-being, she catches Lord Wyldon's eye on her way out of the arena. He nods at her, an eyebrow raised, and says, "Jesslaw, your charge is a disgrace to my training."

"Wonderful to see you too, Lord Wyldon," Kel says, perhaps a little tilt-silly. His eyebrow goes up further, but instead of the sharp retort she half expects, his mouth quirks sideways.

"Excellent as usual, Kelad – Mindelan," he says, ducks his head in a brusque bow, and turns away. The encounter leaves a strange glow in Kel's chest, a restlessness, but Owen is chattering away again as if he's forgotten it already.

"You were wonderful, Kel! Gosh, you've got even better since I last saw you! I'll never beat you," says Owen happily as they headed back into the tent. "You must teach me how you caught my charge like that." Kel claps him on the back, charmed, as she always is, by his total lack of resentment at being beaten, let alone by a woman. He's a knight now, not a squire, and Kel had feared he would lose that generosity, but he never has.

"You caught me quite a knock on my shoulder," she says, smiling. "My fingers are still tingling."

They neither of them have squires, and the camp is in disarray with the unexpectedly early arrival of two contingents of Riders and a party of gentry from the East, so they help each other disarm in Owen's tent, which is closer, unbuckling breastplates and greaves with dirty, slightly shaky fingers. It's a hot day in July, and their tunics are sodden under their armour. They smell like each other, like sweat, dust, leather and metal. It's cooler in the tent, at least, and Kel takes a long, delicious swig of water, dashing some over her face before handing the skin to Owen. 

"I say, Kel," Owen says quietly, and when Kel looks up, caught by something in his voice, she sees him looking at her seriously. "You really are magnificent, you know." 

Owen's face is pink with emotion and exercise, his full lips red, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. They're still both panting slightly, and Kel's body is singing from the fight and the odd tension she'd caught from Wyldon. Reckless in the suddenly charged atmosphere of the tent, she tugs her sodden tunic over her head and tosses it to the floor. Owen's eyes widen. He reaches out and touches her bare shoulder lightly, strokes his callused finger down her bicep. Kel shivers suddenly, and sees Owen's expression change. The air between them is thick with desire, of a sudden, competition of a different sort. Kel waits for Owen to look away, to blush, or to become stiff and awkward. Since it became fairly public that she had given away her womanly honour and any hope or interest in a noblewoman's marriage – since her fling with Dom, that is – she's caught some of the Riders and knights watching her, where once they would have looked away. She's aware, sometimes, of a wary interest, but somehow it's never come to this, even though she's sometimes wished it would. Owen doesn't falter, just stares at her, as if he's trying to drink her in with his eyes.

Kel leans in slowly until their mouths touch and for a moment they share hot breath between them, a brush of tongues, and then it's a wrestling, tugging match to remove their clothes and get skin against skin. Owen moans as Kel straddles him and unwinds her sweat-soaked breast-band, holding him still between her thighs, then he surges up to catch her bare breast in his mouth and she gasps, her fingers digging into his shoulder as hot pleasure jolts through her at his powerful suckling on her breast. 

"Oh, yes," gasps Owen, "Yes, Kel, will you come atop me? Oh, you're glorious."

"I might have known - even this wouldn't - shut you up," Kel grits out, as she spears herself on Owen's manhood, sinking down onto him, deep, deep and hard. She rides him with none of the awkwardness that she used to have doing this with Dom, all the eagerness and joy of battle turning to urgent heat, fresh sweat stinging the raw places on her skin, her bruised ribs and shoulder aching at every gasped breath. Owen's fingers dig into her thighs as he urges her on, ungentle, and it spurs her on until the cot groans and cracks beneath them. Owen curses and Kel wraps her legs around him and rolls them onto the floor, the movement thrusting him deeper inside her so that she curses and gasps for breath.

"Kel," Owen moans, "Mithros, Kel, do hurry up, I can't take much more of this," and Kel's laugh turns into a moan that she bites her wrist to stifle, and she shudders above Owen, pleasure racking her, giving herself entirely up to her climax without self-consciousness. Owen spends inside her silently with only a few helpless, choking gasps, and Kel pets his hair through it, a delicious lassitude spreading through her limbs. 

"Gosh," Owen says to the ceiling wonderingly, when they have finally untangled themselves into two sweaty, filthy heaps of spent warrior. "That was fun."

"Yes," Kel says faintly.

"Do you think that was what they call a 'tumble'?" says Owen.

"Probably," says Kel.

"I say Kel," Owen says, turning to her suddenly, and the seriousness in his voice sends the first chill of misgiving down Kel's spine. What, she thinks with sudden horror, if he thinks he has to marry her now?

"I'm famished. Do you have anything to eat?"

Kel closes her eyes, and laughs out loud.


	2. Lalasa Isran and Tian Plowman

Kel returns from a long month on patrol to find that a pipe leading to the palace baths has burst, and snow has made the training yards impassible. The palace is almost abandoned - most of the knights who aren't on the border are holed up in their estates, and the royals have moved to more comfortable lodgings. There are a few letters waiting for Kel – a jolly scrawl from Owen, a thick double letter from Shinko and Neal that she tucks away to read later, and a short note from Wyldon, which she rips open and reads immediately. The mail only makes her feel lonelier, and after staring at her bare room for a while as Jump whines questioningly at the cot, she wraps up again and calls for a horse.

"Nonsense, Milady, of course you must stay," Lalasa says, clucking her tongue as she runs her hands over Kel's shoulders, back and waist, an automatic touch since the days when Kel had filled out her tunics from one week to the next, and as warming as an embrace. They fall back into their old habits like an old shirt, Kel thinks, smiling. Lalasa even forgets to call her 'Kel' in her surprise. The shop is packed, of course, but has an air of controlled chaos as Lalasa's assistants – her shy, mousy apprentice, plus several no-nonsense seamstresses hired for the holiday rush – wield stretches of jewel-coloured fabric, tape measures, scissors and thread under Lalasa's watchful eye. 

"But your Midwinter plans – I wouldn't want to interrupt –" says Kel awkwardly, feeling like a sore thumb in the bustle of these elegant city women, a head-and-shoulder taller than any of them in her woolen hose, filthy boots, and snow-splattered winter cloak.

"We planned a nice, quiet Midwinter," says Lalasa firmly, "And you shall spend it with us."

"Tian –"

"Tian would love to have you. You're family to us, Kel, you know that. Go upstairs this minute and take off those filthy things."

Soon Kel sits by the upstairs window, watching the snow drift down onto the cobblestones. With a cup of hot chocolate warming her hands and a blanket over her sore, horse-battered legs, she is enjoying the simple feeling of being warm right through for the first time in a month. Tian is embroidering by the fireside, and Lalasa leans against her, watching the flames. Kel does not know Tian as well as Lalasa, but since they opened the shop together, she feels as if she has seen them both grow into themselves, Lalasa's newly confident flair and the solid, calm strength of Tian complementing each other the way their hands do in the firelight, dark and light-skinned fingers interlaced.

Kel feels a strong pang of homesickness, suddenly, not connected to any particular place or person (although she misses her mother and father, of course, away in the Yamani Isles, a constant little ache), but rather for what Lalasa and Tian have together, for the way they are so clearly at home with each other. Jump is fast asleep by the fire, his legs occasionally twitching as he chases dreams.

"Too cold to sleep in the guest room," Tian says softly. "You'll share with us?"

Kel hesitates, not wanting to impose, but the fire flickers upwards and catches the soft expression on Lalasa's face, and Kel nods, wordless. They lead her to bed, undress her, and Tian kisses her first, then Lalasa.

"You work so hard," murmurs Lalasa, kissing the new scar on her upper bicep as Tian runs her fingers through Kel's hair, her clever fingers sending shivers of happiness down Kel's back. "Your poor arm." 

They take Kel apart slowly, lavishing attention on every part of her, and Kel sinks in to a wondering daze. She hums with pleasure as she is stroked and petted like a cat, and arches back, her voice cracking, when Tian puts her mouth on her at last. Then it is Lalasa's turn, and she tells Kel how to please her, her eyes averted and her face flaming red, as Kel frowns in concentration and Tian laughs, one hand propping up her head and the other between her legs. Lalasa has gained weight with prosperity, is filling out into the big, comfortable woman her body wants her to be, and Kel is fascinated by the generosity of the expanding curves of Lalasa's body, the softness of her planes, the way her skin yields and welcomes touch. 

"Oh yes," whispers Lalasa, eyes fluttering closed, "Oh, milady – I mean, oh dear –" and Kel flushes too as Tian giggles and Lalasa squeaks with embarrassment. 

"I love how happy you are," Kel murmurs later, in the quiet of the snowy night. She kisses Lalasa's forehead, then Tian's. "I love how happy you make her."

"You are ours," Lalasa says, pulling her down into an embrace, and Tian wraps her arms around Kel's waist so the three of them are pressed together, sharing warmth and love. "Our home is your home. Our bed is your bed. Whenever you want it."

"I think I want what you have," Kel whispers into the forgiving dark. "I didn't think I did. But sometimes I feel as though I don't understand anything."

Tian strokes her hair. 

"You will, sweet. You'll find what you're looking for. Until then, you can always come home to us."

Kel sleeps in the unaccustomed heat, curled between them, and wakes on Midwinter morn feeling as though she has changed, somehow. She rides out of Corus a week later with a new, shapeless yearning in her heart that sometimes hurts her, on long nights, sometimes annoys her, and sometimes makes her feel something like despair. She tries not to connect the feeling of emptiness with the bundle of letters she keeps buried in her pack – brusque, practical letters mostly, about horses, dogs, and assault tactics, nothing to moon over, mostly beginning something like _Wednesday 5th, on the road,_ and ending _– W_. There's always the work, the animals, and doing what she does best. It's enough, most of the time.


	3. Buriram Tourakom

It's a long, hard season on the frontier. Kel is in command of her own camp, and she is worn to the bone when Tobe finally persuades her to go to report to the general in person rather than send Merrick again. She leaves at last, his chirp of, "We'll be fine, mother!" following her out of the camp, as she ignores the chuckles of the guards, too tired to even summon a smile as Hoshi carries her away.

She gives her report, and is led to the officer's mess by a grave young squire whose face she doesn't recognize. It makes her feel old. Her knees hurt, and their healer has told her to go to see Master Esric here, but she stubbornly heads toward the knot of heads bent over the map table instead, wanting to make her greetings now so she can bathe and sleep in peace later. 

"Kel!" Buri turns and grins, and Kel blinks. "Didn't know I was here, eh?"

Kel has spent too long working to keep her Yamani blankness, too long in amongst all the in-fighting, the bitter despair of the refugees, the resentment of the local gentry, the hunger of the women and the sorrow of the men, and on seeing Buri, all her grief for Raoul comes flooding back afresh. It has been more than eight months since she got the news in a letter from Wyldon, but she has not had time to mourn, or to share her grief with anyone who really knew him. Her eyes sting, and she can't make her face stretch into a smile. Buri's sharp eyes fly to her face, and Kel sees the new lines of grief etched into her hard, lined face.

"The king's kept you out there too long," she says. "I'll tell him so."

"I'm all right," Kel says, looking down. To hide her expression, she grabs a cup and fills it from the communal jug. She slops some liquid on the table; her hand is shaking, she notices. "I'm just tired. It was a long ride."

"That's only watered down wine," Buri says. "You look like you need a real drink or several. I've a meeting now, but come to my tent later for the good stuff."

The woman in the cart holds her two children pressed tight against her breast, her lips firmly pressed together, her knuckles white around the handle of a small axe. Five bandits surround them. Kel takes aim with her gryphon-fletched arrows and fires, taking one man in the throat. He falls backwards, and the flaming torch in his hand catches the wheel, and flames lick upward –

"Kel."

Kel jerks upright. "Mithros, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to – I only sat down for a second –"

Buri settles her with a hand on her shoulder. "It's quite all right. I told you you needed a drink. Sit there. I'll show you something that will impress you."

She pulls an embroidered bag, apparently empty, from one of the packs at the back of the tent, undoes the little ribbon tying its mouth closed, and draws out of it two immaculate crystal goblets. Kel stares.

"I'm coming around to magic in my old age," she says, grinning crookedly. She looks at the goblets and sighs. "A wedding gift, from Numair Salmalín. He said if he'd learned one thing with a wife who was away half the time, it was that you should share the best while you could, even when you were on the road."

"Oh, Buri," Kel says brokenly. "I wanted to come to the funeral."

She feels a sob rising in her throat and scowls, trying to push it down. She does not want to force her grief on Buri, of all people.

"He would have understood," Buri says huskily. "He was always a soldier first, a friend and husband second. If you had left those people, he would have come back and killed you himself." She pours out two fingerfuls of an amber liquid, and raises her glass.

"We did share the best, Kel. And that was in great part thanks to you," she says. "I'll always be grateful for that. We had great times together."

Kel sniffs the drink, decides she had better not taste it, and knocks it back; it sends the tears standing in her eyes rolling down her face as she coughs, but at least, she thinks wryly, it's burned the sobs right out of her throat.

"That's the spirit," says Buri. "You know what I propose, Keladry of Mindelin? I propose we get dead drunk."

"He'd certainly approve," Kel says wryly, and holds out her glass for another round.

Kel's lost enough comrades to know that sometimes, it's better to laugh than cry, and sometimes you do both. They wake Raoul that night, just the two of them, remembering how he had tried to dodge the parties on the Progress, the evening gatherings with Roald and Shinkokami, the tournaments, Raoul betting furiously on Kel at every event and threatening to take it out of her allowance when he lost. Kel recounts the more colourful stories about the baby gryphon, and Buri laughs her dark, rich laugh until tears run down her face. Buri tells Kel the whole story of how Raoul died, the rescue, the volcano, and how Raoul had said, voice half gone from the ash, that it would take more than a thrice-damned farting mountain to stop him, and Kel weeps and giggles until she gets the hiccups and has to lie down. 

They sleep, for a little while, and when they wake, still a little drunk, it's to kiss the tears off each other's faces and hold each other until Kel feels that a dam is breaking down in her. She hangs on grimly to Buri, desperate for touch. She hasn't dare take a lover under her command – hasn't wanted one, weighed down with all her own grief and the grief of others, Wyldon's neat lines wavering as he wrote short notes during his wife's final days of illness – and she hasn't realized how much she had been holding in, all this time. Buri's strong body, heavy with muscle, feels like an anchor.

"Kel," says Buri, low, mouth close to hers. "Would you – I need to feel alive, Kel, I'm afraid of getting old –"

"I'm here," whispers Kel fiercely, and they make love under the blankets in Buri's tent, Buri's hands in Kel's hair and Kel's mouth between her legs, licking her strong taste and feeling her thigh muscles flex beneath her fingers. Kel rubs herself against that thigh afterwards, shuddering and clinging as she climaxes, and Buri brings herself off on Kel's fingers a second time, then brings Kel off on hers. They sleep at last together, a deep, healing sleep. 

In the morning, Kel feels as if she can face the world again. There are two new letters from Wyldon, that Buri hands over with only a slightly raised eyebrow. They crackle under her shirt as Kel rides out of the camp, a light but firm weight against her heart. The first says, _Peachblossom is well settled in the stables. I believe that vicious old gelding is pining for you,_ followed by a sentence crossed out, the pen scratching so deep that it has almost gone through the paper. _The second says, that puppy Jesslaw has offered for my Margarry. I have my reservations but have assented. He has a decent heart and may steady under her influence._ The sentence that returns to her treacherous mind over and over is _For a time I thought you and he had an understanding. I am glad I was wrong._


End file.
